by Tiger Hebert
The trio did not talk as they rode along through the darkness. Instead they focused their energy into constant surveillance, always listening and scanning for shapes and movements among the shadows around them. Not much could be heard, though, as the weather shifted. Frigid winds rushed down over the mountains far north of them, like a pack of frost wolves on the hunt. Tirelessly they howled as they rushed over the barren tundra. They drowned out everything else, even the clopping of the horses’ hooves upon the frosted ground. The wind alone was enough to make them wish they had not made the journey, but this weather system began to bring storm clouds with it, and the night grew even darker.
Onward they rode, almost blindly, putting miles between themselves and the safety of Jasprita’s high walls. Seratu wasn’t particularly thrilled about this mission.
A fool’s errand, and we are the fools, he thought.
He did not want to wander about in the vast expanse of the darkened plains. His thoughts lingered on the delightful things—the aroma and taste of cod smothered with savory herbs roasted over the fire and the warmth that its dancing flames freely gave. Yet even despite the bitter cold and his groaning hunger, his mind kept coming back to the touch of her sweet lips. He missed those comforts, but he longed for her much more.
Isiirial fascinated every part of him. He was convinced she was more than a pretty face. He had known the excitement of chasing pretty girls, but something about her was different. Her wit, her charm, her beauty, and her fire all sparked a flame that burned within him. There was so much about her that he was still waiting to learn, to explore. He was excited about it. It wasn’t about the chase; it was about her. She stood out, even among her own people. He wanted to understand her inner workings, her strengths and weaknesses, her quirks and insecurities.
Every moment he spent with her was like turning a page in a novel that he had never read. Her passion and her dreams were beyond what he had imagined for himself. They were an unexplored territory that seemed to have no end. His desire to read every page of her never-ending story grew with each passing day. This wasn’t just the fiery lust of youth that torched your flesh and seared your heart with regret; it was something else, something he had not experienced. It was not the butterflies-in-the-stomach euphoria that was deceitfully cunning and treacherous to the unwise. No, this was different.
He saw her faults. Her impatience and her stubbornness topped the list. He thought this bullheaded girl was unyielding. He understood that compromise and finding common ground would rarely come without great effort, but he respected the passion and courage within her that provoked it. She was the most fearless woman he had known, save perhaps Kiriana. Yet she still had the warmth and compassion that he longed for. His mind lingered on these things as his horse plodded along ahead of the others.
Seratu began to stir from his waking dream, and he began to look around in the dark. He noticed that Jaren was a few yards behind him, but Kyarl, who brought up the rear, had become barely visible in the distance behind them. As he watched, he guessed that Kyarl had to have been thirty yards or so back. The old boy must have fallen asleep. He will never hear the end of this, he thought with a chuckle. Had they not been locked into silent drudgery, he would have roused his superior with a round of heckling, but the chastisement would have to wait. Jaren and Seratu both looked at each other again as they shared another muted laugh. At that point, both of their horses slowed to a halt and began to snort and whinny. As the two riders looked ahead of them, they could see glimmers of light flashing over the ground just a short distance ahead of them. They couldn’t hear the rushing waters, but Seratu knew they had finally reached the Cold River.
This river came from the same tributary that flowed through Storm Vale. The main course of the river plummeted into the harbor, whereas this branch turned to the south, where it would cascade through one of the frozen gorges of the Sky Reach Mountains. The river cut a generally narrow path south through the flatlands. Following the natural lay of the land, the river snaked its way around the western slopes of the Agremnall Hills until it found its way into the tropical wilds.
Despite the violent current tumbling through the gorge, the water would often carry large chunks of snow-covered ice downstream, keeping the river quite cold. The river’s simple yet accurate name was actually given by the denizens of the jungle long ago during the glory days.
In those days, Karthusa stood tall and proud. Her streets had been an exotic hub of extravagance and indulgence, bustling with mercantile activity. It was in her canals where the two dissimilar rivers wrestled. The cold and angry waters out of the north clashed with the sultry Kiyai River. Despite the dangers, the locals would often find relief from the oppressive jungle heat in those churning waters. Now that same river, flowing with ice-cold mountain water, crossed before them.
“I believe that if we follow the river south, we should find a crossing that will take us into the western stretch of the hills,” recalled Seratu in a hushed voice.
“That is going to take us awful close to the wilds, won’t it,” asked Jaren with an uncomfortable look on his face.
Seratu looked behind them at Kyarl’s shadowy figure as he slowly drifted toward them. He chuckled again before turning back to Jaren and giving a simple nod. Then without another word, he veered his mount south and slowly followed the river. Jaren reluctantly followed and, at an even greater distance, Kyarl too.
Not quite an hour had passed before they saw the first traces of the rolling hills just beyond the narrow river. That was when they found the narrow crossing, just as Seratu said they would.
The crossing was not a ford, as you would expect of a river crossing. Rather than shallows, the river simply snaked its way south in a gully that ran through a rugged patch of terrain. The stretch of land was full of massive rock formations. The river’s narrow throat allowed crossing via the rock ledges that reached over the rapids. Carefully the two young slayers walked their horses across the river, giving great attention to the slippery rocks and the churning water below. They did not have to cover a great distance, but rushing now, especially given the low light conditions, could prove deadly. So the two young men slowly worked until they reached the other side of the crossing. Once the divide was crossed, they looked back at their companion, who had just now reached their starting point.
With a wave of his hand, Seratu motioned for Kyarl to make his way across. However, Kyarl’s response was not to follow them. Instead, Kyarl simply pulled the reins back and turned his horse around. They watched as their leader rode away from them. A look of confusion fell over both of their faces as they looked back and forth at each other. Then all hell broke loose.
Arrows began to zip through the night air as they groped about blindly for their marks. The ringing of steel-tipped arrowheads skipping off the rocky crossing rose against the backdrop of the shouting enemies and splashing rapids. Seratu and Jaren tried to run. The two young men scrambled back over the rocky ledges. Then a piercing cry escaped Jaren’s lips as the protruding point of an arrow emerged from his shoulder. The pain stole his focus and resulted in careless footing. He slipped upon the wet surface, only to crash to the rock ledge underfoot.
Seratu screamed, “No!” as he turned back to help his friend. Pain erupted in his right leg. The arrow tore through his thigh until it found bone. The burning of the flesh tearing and the deep ache of striking the bone was nothing short of excruciating. His body crumpled to the ground. The friends cried out in pain as they reached out for each other, but there was no mercy to be found. In disbelief, they turned and looked back beyond the river. There they spent their last breaths watching the silent figure of their friend drift off into the shadows.
Kyarl rode toward Jasprita, his task finished. Peeking through the scattered holes in the night sky, he spotted the faint outline of the unlit moon. He thought that there was still time to get back for breakfast. He contemplated it for a moment and came to the conclusion that he would indeed partake in the
morning meal. He hoped Sophie’s biscuits and gravy were on the menu, and with that hope in mind, he rode onward.
A few hours had passed, and the dim light of dawn began to shine. That was when Kyarl could be seen racing toward the city’s wooden gates. The morning watch scrambled to open the gates to allow the lone rider through. At the sound of the opening, Isiirial pulled a robe over herself and rushed out from her dwelling into the city center. She awaited Seratu’s return, but he would never come. The lone rider appeared distraught, completely overcome with emotion as he announced the attack that took the lives of his two men. He played them all for fools
“We were ambushed! The black dragon’s army hid beyond the Cold River crossing. Those men…they gave their lives…to protect me so that I might warn you. The army will be here today!” explained the Master Slayer before departing the town square.
The young elf maiden was stunned and heartbroken. Her eyes welled up with unending tears; the painful sobs rocked her petite frame. Her uncle seized the opportunity to try and comfort her. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to his chest, all the while exchanging a knowing glance with Kyarl as he led her away.
Kyarl made his way through the town square toward King Nikolai’s bedchamber. On his way, he crossed paths with Aneri’On. As they came closer together, Aneri’On stopped in his tracks and gazed upon the guilty man. He felt the weight of the wrong that was committed clinging to the slayer. Grief and sadness overtook him.
“My friend, what have you done?” he asked from a place of sorrow.
Kyarl’s hardened response was, “I have calculated the high tide of war.”
“You have calculated far more than that. You have calculated the fulcrum point at which gold outweighs blood,” whispered the disappointed Frelsarine.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” snapped Kyarl sourly.
“Their blood cries out,” he replied.
“There blood is not upon my hands,” argued Kyarl as he threw his bare hands toward his accuser.
“Oh, but it is. And now their spilled blood is a stain upon your soul and that of the elven king’s,” declared the Frelsarine as a teardrop streamed down over his cheek.
At this, Kyarl could look upon him no longer, and he walked off to find the king of Jasprita. As he trudged through the streets, he fought with the anxiety of his deeds being exposed.
How does he know about our agreement? What proof does he really have? It would be his word versus mine.
He tried to put these questions out of his mind, but the specter of his foul deed was already haunting him. In silence, he made his way quickly to King Nikolai’s chambers. Once he was there, he was able to share the news of the mission with the king and to warn him that the black dragon’s army was clearly less than a day’s march away.
Everyone had been warned. Time was slipping away quickly, and time was of the essence, so he made his way to track down the elven king.
“We must talk,” said Kyarl.
“Not now,” groaned the tight-lipped king.
“Aneri’On knows,” growled the man.
“What? What did you say?” demanded the king.
“I have denied everything, but he knows. He said there is blood upon our souls,” he answered with a trembling voice.
The king’s demeanor shifted to one that is cold and calculated, and then he spoke, “Then we will just have to eliminate him too.”
“And for that, I offer no compensation.”
“How do you propose we do it?” asked Kyarl.
“The thing about war, it is a nasty and unpredictable thing, and war is coming,” suggested King Tua’Liluon.
The man replied, “We will make him a casualty of war.”
With a harrowing glare from narrowed eyes, Tua’Liluon answered, “Yes, Master Slayer. When the battle spills beyond these walls, we will split our forces. We will abandon this hero and let him die a glorious death.”
“Very well,” agreed Kyarl before he departed the king’s bedchamber.
34 Into the Fire
The bite of day’s frigid air was not without teeth. The brutal cold gnawed right through every stitch of cloth and every scrap of leather that could be found. The ground was hard as a rock. It was covered in the shimmering white crystals of frost. Large flakes of snow slowly floated down on the chilling breeze that rolled off the mountains. Many were busy about their tasks, making preparations, but seldom were words spoken. Instead, silence ruled the day. A silence that could not be truly explained well, or perhaps even understood. It was the silence of a snowfall in the midst of a vast wilderness. The silence was almost insulating. It was a quiet that would drown out the rest of the world, yet it left the pounding of your own heart stampeding through your head. It was in these moments that time seemed to finally stop to catch its breath. Here, peace and joy could stand in the face of hopelessness and despair and not back down. This was a time where rest could be had in the shadow of peril. In that place and that moment, Aneri’On waited.
Resting upon his knees with his face bowed low to the ground, he prayed. His eyes remained closed, and his lips spoke muted words. Hundreds of silent utterances rushed forth from his lips. They gave no sound, but they had a voice that carried far beyond the reach of the human ear. Men and women made busy in the distance behind him as they prepared for war. Slayvin and his army marched toward them, but the Frelsarine simply prayed.
The sleek gray wolf walked up and lay down next to him, and two more figures were soon to follow. Theros and Sharka, both wrapped in leather-bound furs, knelt down at Aneri’On’s side.
“Will you pray with me?” he asked.
“We don’t know how,” answered the orc humbly.
“I will teach you.”
Theros responded, “Please, my lord.”
So he taught them, and they waited in prayer.
The black flags of the dragon flew high as Slayvin’s horde marched toward Jasprita. His army had grown. It was massive, and it was frightening. The nightmarish Colonel Jun led the way. He was fully encased in the draconic armor, with his blackened blade at the ready as he rode atop his armored steed. Opposite him, Ekrin, the dragon’s high priest, rode atop his jagrel, with Ungbuu and Bogbaan never far from his side. The Drakari priesthood and the evangelists led the formation itself. These were the same men and women that raced like wildfire across the southern half of Darnisi in search of new converts. They still donned the same combinations of red-and-black robes, but the charade was over. Now they were draped over with layers of heavy blackened armor. Their hands prepared for battle with cruel and warped tools of war.
Behind them marched the lost souls who accepted the bribe to serve the beast. This ragtag group used whatever pieces of armor and weapons they could find along the way. Individually they did not inspire fear, but there were thousands of them. The back half of the army was a blend of Zenari raiders and the combined forces of the Danji and An’wari warriors. The Zenari wore their traditional black robes and offered thousands of curved blades to the dragon’s will. The Danji, on the other hand, wrapped their dark bodies with as many layers of fur as they could, just hoping it would allow them to withstand the elements. Nearly ten thousand marched upon Jasprita that day, all under the banner and influence of the shadow drake.
Aneri’On and his companions made it safely back inside the walls before the forces of the enemy crossed over the final stretch of the frozen plains. Soldiers pulled the rugged wooden doors at the main gate shut, and the latches were securely fixed. The half circle wall that stood between them and the advancing enemy was lined with men and women of all shapes and sizes, prepared to do battle. Like many others, Isiirial and Kiriana stood close together atop the wall just south of the main gate with weapons in at the ready. Kiriana was not happy about it; she wanted to be in the thick of the battle, but she would stay upon the walls throughout the battle. They needed her leadership there. The city was not conceived by a military mind, nor was it ever designed t
o serve as a fortress. It was, however, going to serve just this purpose today, as it would remain the last bastion of hope in the western world.
The sting of the wind could still be felt upon the height of the walls, but it had settled quite a bit down below on the ground. This was evidenced by the once-swirling snowflakes now easing themselves downward ever so gently. The crescendo of silence rose as soon to be frostbitten fingers fumbled for the newly fletched arrows. The dreadful army of the dragon halted their march just outside of bowshot. Silence and stillness overtook the entire scene from just beyond the city’s walls to the frozen plain where the wicked host had amassed. Then it was shattered violently.
From out of the swirling cloud-filled skies stormed the incarnation of fury and rage. Like a black streak of lightning, he shot down through the tumbling flakes. Screaming through the air, he bellowed. His roar seemed to make the very ground tremble. His dragonfire burst forth. The wave of flame poured about by this flying volcano raced toward Jasprita before dissipating into a cloud of smoke. The beasts crashed to the once frozen ground with thundering effect.
The heat that radiated from his furnace of a heart melted the very ground he stood upon. Men, dwarf, elf—they all shuddered at the sight of the terrible creature. Slayvin was the very stuff of legends and, more accurately, nightmares. Swirling gusts of momentous wind rushed ahead of him as he beat those massive wings at the air, steadying himself. The coal-black chest of the dragon, which was covered with scales and bone, heaved greatly with each deep breath. All four powerful legs flexed as they held his heavily armored frame more than a dozen feet above the ground. Rows of plate-like bones and dagger-like spires rose outward from his thickly scaled shell. Behind him, a giant tail full of jutting obsidian spikes whipped back and forth before the winged serpent snaked it back around his own legs. Muscles rippled below the armored surface of the dragon’s neck as he stretched his head forward. He was menacing. Ash and smoke colored bones jutted forth from his cheeks, and they angled back away from his mouth as they formed a jagged ridge-like point. A craggy chasm of flames leered out at them from behind the cage of blackened teeth. Death’s maw would have been more inviting than the dragon’s. Rows of blades rose up like scales off the beast’s hardened face. Rigid protrusions of bone framed the eye sockets, and the massive dark horns of the beast swept back away from his skull in a snaking fashion. Lidless eyes flashed red and raged with a deeply burning fire, and the monster’s body quaked in anticipation of the coming feast.
